


Wings of Desire

by Nos4a2no9



Category: Der Himmel über Berlin | Wings of Desire (1987), due South
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-17
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nos4a2no9/pseuds/Nos4a2no9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is an angel who thinks about love, about falling. Based on 1987's "Wings of Desire".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wings of Desire

There are angels on the streets of Chicago.

They have watched mankind since time began in a lost garden. They will watch until the world of man fades away and everything is dark and silent once more.

They watch.

Two of these angels – Cassiel and Ray – are perched high on the El track at 87th and Irvine. They meet once or twice a day to tell each other what they have witnessed, what they have learned. Each tries to determine if humans have a soul. And some days Ray thinks, “Yes, of course” and sometimes Cassiel says, “No.”

Cassiel begins because Ray needs a little time to collect his thoughts. His notes are always disorganized and he speaks with a rapidity and a lack of precision that has confounded Cassiel since the sixteenth century.

Ray is a very good angel.

“Sunrise at 6:34am. Sunset at 7:22pm. An old woman fell on the ice outside her apartment building. She lay there for a long time and watched the snow drift down from the sky. It melted on her eyelashes and she did not think about getting up.”

“That’s good.” Ray is watching people pass below on the street. They seem both so close and so far away. “That’s very good.”

“A suicide at dawn,” Cassiel continues, still reading from his notebook. “I sat with the young man all night but in the morning he jumped anyway. On the way down he thought about the smell popcorn makes when it cooks too long and burns.”

“Hmm,” Ray says into the wind neither of them can feel. “Why?”

“I think it was pure chance. He might have thought about his mother’s housecoat or the way rain sounds against a tin roof. Or perhaps something about falling reminded him of it. Do you think death would smell like burning popcorn?”

“To humans. But I’d really like to know.”

Cassiel frowns. “You know we could never-”

“Yeah,” Ray says quickly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his long black overcoat. He shrugs and begins to pace along the edge of the track. “But wouldn’t you like to know? What it feels like to have a cigarette? Or a cheeseburger? To say “maybe” instead of “always” or “forever”? To make love? To fall? Don’t you think it would be good?”

They’ve had this conversation before, many times. Cassiel feels as though they will always have it. “I’d like to understand temptation,” he says, his voice quiet above the wind. “I want to know evil. To pluck the apple and take a bite. To be led astray.”

Ray shakes his head. Cassiel, who knows so much, never understands.

“I saw a man in a red tunic dive onto the back of a moving car,” Ray tries to explain. No need to look at his notebook. “He clung to the top for six blocks until the driver made a mistake and crashed. And then the man rolled away and dusted himself off and kept order until the police arrived. A woman in the crowd called him a hero. Later he went back to his apartment and wept.”

Cassiel’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

This is a question Ray can answer. “He thinks he’s alone.”

“He is. They all are.”

“They have us,” Ray insists. And with the softness their kind can sense in the sunset: “He has me.”

Cassiel nods. This is why Ray is such a good angel.

They leave one another without saying goodbye. Cassiel goes to the library to read with one of the humans. There he will ponder temptation as an intellectual puzzle; he’ll never get any closer than that.

Ray goes to the little tenement on Racine. The red tunic hangs neatly in the closet, and the rest of the apartment is bare. The man sleeps in a small, hard bed. Ray thinks of Saint Simon and lies down next to the man.

The man stirs a little, mumbling in his sleep. Ray puts a hand on his chest and wishes he could feel the man’s heartbeat. He wishes he could be seen. The man settles and grows quiet; he dreams the dreams of angels.

Ray closes his eyes and thinks, _This is what it’s like to fall._


	2. Angels and the Modern City

There are angels on the streets of Chicago. But one of them does not wish to be an angel any longer.

His name is Ray and he has fallen in love. His kind are not meant to do so. They are meant to watch, and learn, and to decide if humans really do have a soul. Ray has watched them since the beginning of time. His friend Cassiel watches too, and he has also watched Ray. This is what he has noticed:

In the ten thousand years of human existence, Ray has always loved mankind. His faith in them never wavers. He watched with Cassiel as the first human settlements rose up along the shores of the great lake. The people who lived in these early villages lived close to the land; their souls were filled with the sky and the water, and they loved the earth in a way Cassiel could respect. Those humans were wiped from existence by others who built homes of brick and iron. This was a terrible time: Ray and Cassiel watched the land grow old and weary, paved over by cobblestone and shadowed by tall buildings. Pollution clouded the lake and made the sky turn black and the air taste foul. The people were hungry and unhappy and cruel to one another. Cassiel often thinks of the first people to settle the land. He misses them with a longing so intense it might have been painful, if angels could feel pain. They who have seen so much remember everything that passes, and that is their curse.

But Ray likes these new humans. He liked the old ones, too, but Ray says that humans embody change, and even angels must learn the meaning of “present” and “future” without mourning too much for the past. Angels do not experience time, but Ray tries to understand it. He wants to understand them. 

Cassiel discovers this is a certainty when he realizes that Ray has fallen in love. He knew about the man in the red tunic: Ray had told him about the Mountie who threw himself out of windows and onto moving cars and then wept alone in his empty room. Cassiel visited this man himself, and he saw an extraordinary soul living in ordinary times. He pitied the man but could not see what Ray finds so interesting about him. Angels have seen many humans fated to live where they do not belong.

But Ray loves the man in the red tunic. He returns to him night after night and tells Cassiel what he learns, and his eyes shine with a light that blinds Cassiel.

“He prays,” Ray says, and there is something in his voice Cassiel has not heard in a thousand years. “He prays for warmth, for companionship, for love.”

“They all pray for that,” Cassiel reminds Ray. He sounds as if he’s forgotten everything they have learned about the humans. “You ought to know; you’ve listened to them for centuries.”

“But he doesn’t pray for himself. He prays for others. He prays for them all. And he risks himself every day because he wants so badly to give of himself, for others to give to him. He’s beautiful.”

“Most of them are, in their own way.”

Cassiel’s answer does not please Ray. He frowns and studies the city, studies it's people as they pass below.

“You’ve never understood them,” Ray says after a moment. “After all this watching, you’ve never understood. You just feel sorry for them, because they can’t know the universe as we do.”

“And don’t you pity them for their blindness?”

Ray shakes his head. “No. Never. Because we’re blind too. We don’t know what it’s like to touch and taste the world. We can see forever, but we can’t feel it. And they can.”

“And your Mountie? If all he feels is pain and emptiness, then why--?” 

That look again, the one that reminds Cassiel why Ray has always been the better angel. “He makes me want to be one of them, Cassiel. I would give everything to know someone so beautiful. Someone who prays like that deserves an answer.”

“You’ve always been curious about them. But to become one with them is…difficult. Consider this carefully, Ray.” Cassiel is thinking of his lost humans of the earth and sky. The world is a very cruel place. 

Ray nods but he never looks at his friend. Instead his eyes are fixed on the horizons of Chicago. 

They part at sunset. Cassiel goes to hear a prisoner yell, “Now!” as he bashes his head against the wall of his cell. And then to listen as a schoolgirl describes the way a fern grows out of the earth. Her classmates clap and cheer. 

Ray goes to the 27th precinct’s Major Crimes Unit. He listens for a while to a man named Louis, who thinks about a cat licking its paws after she catches a mouse. Ray moves on. He stops in the Lieutenant’s office and watches the big man as he hunts for a pen underneath his desk. 

The Lieutenant is thinking about chili dogs and milkshakes, and then his thoughts run to indigestion. Ray likes this Lieutenant; he would like very much to know what a chili dog tastes like, and even an unsettled stomach would be welcome. The Lieutenant finds his pen and climbs out from beneath his desk. He settles back into his chair with a heavy sigh and taps thoughtfully at his lower lip. 

“I know you’re here,” he says in the quiet office. Even the telephones outside have stopped ringing. “I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. I can feel it.”

Nothing like this has ever happened before, and nothing like it will ever happen again. Ray is surprised that it is the rumpled, cynical Lieutenant who has set this amazing precedent. He had thought…he had hoped it would be his Mountie. 

The Lieutenant continues as if he is unaware that he is making the impossible happen.

“I’m a friend. And I know what you’re thinking about, just like you know what I’m thinking about. I know you’re thinking about falling. And I can tell you – it’s good. There are so many good things. Coffee,” he says. He picks up the little paper cup on his desk and drains it, smacking his lips. “Coffee is great. And cigarettes. Have them both together and it’s wonderful.” 

The Lieutenant leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his expansive stomach. “Food. The food alone is worth it. French fries. Ice cream. Cheesecake. Escargot in a white wine sauce. Chicken. Chocolate. You have no idea.” He closes his eyes. “Sex. Sex is…sex is indescribable. There’s always a moment when your heart almost stops because it’s so good. When it starts up again it’s in rhythm with hers. That’s the best. Two heartbeats, together. But then…” and he drifts and looks a little sad. “But then you’ve never felt a heartbeat.” He smiles. “You will.”

Someone knocks at the door and the Lieutenant lowers his voice. “Find the tallest building in Chicago. Stand at the top on a clear day and look out over the lake. Look for Canada. And then jump. I promise you it’s worth it.”

Ray leaves the Lieutenant just as the knocker opens the door.

**************

He thinks about the Lieutenant’s advice while darkness paints the city. The little apartment on Racine beckons him but Ray goes to the park instead. He wants to watch the wind ruffle the waters of the little pond there. 

Eternity was given to the angels long before man was ever conceived. The divisions were simple: the angels watch man, and man watches himself. Ray remembers the long wait for the first people. He remembers the darkness, and the way time began when the humans arrived. Ray liked the watching, because people are fascinating and he always hopes that one day they will see beyond themselves. He wants the angels and the humans to become one.

He knows this is blasphemy. He knows about Lucifer, about sin and temptation. He knows that this is what Cassiel fears. Cassiel, who has always wanted to understand evil, can only understand Ray’s desire in those terms. But Ray does not want forbidden knowledge. He does not want death and destruction. If the question is, “Does human history have a point? Is the story of all that bloodshed, all those unanswered prayers, worth anything?” then his answer is, “I don’t care.” Because he wants the things the Lieutenant talked about. He wants the things his Mountie dreams about. He wants to feel his heart beat. He wants the warmth of another. He wants to open himself completely for the man in the red tunic, and to welcome the man completely into himself. He wants to spend a human lifetime with the Mountie, and to live with him in a labyrinth of shared happiness. To be one, instead of always and only two.

Ray thinks there is no greater story than that.

He leaves the park and goes to his Mountie’s home. The man sleeps on his back like a child. He dreams of white snow and the scent of wood smoke. Ray lies down beside him.

“Someday,” he whispers to the man. “Someday soon, on a clear day when the lake is calm and Canada is on the horizon, I will jump from the tallest building in the city and I will find you. We will answer each other’s prayers.”

He closes his eyes and curls closer to the man. He dreams of waking up.


	3. Ode to the Western Wind

Ray is still there when the man wakes from his dreams. Sometimes the Mountie is tired and sore in the morning, or he is slow to get up because he spent a sleepless night dreaming of his loneliness. But this morning he wakes up and feels refreshed. He remarks upon this unusual state of affairs to his companion.

“I dreamed of the man again last night, Diefenbaker. The same man. What do you think it means?”

The wolf doesn't answer and Ray understands his silence. Animals have very little patience with what cannot be observed through the senses. They are far too practical for philosophy.

Ray watches the man shave and dress. He listens to his thoughts as the Mountie begins to plan his day. A morning at the Consulate, an afternoon at the station, dinner with his friend the Italian detective. Ray is very glad his Mountie has the Italian in his life. He is not alone, not really, if he has a friend.

The Mountie heats oatmeal in salt and water. Ray watches him eat and wonders about the taste of food. Inevitably he thinks about the scent and texture of skin, the joy of lovemaking. Soon he will know everything, and will wonder no more.

It is still dark outside and Ray knows he must leave the man. The others are gathering for the sunrise, and if it is a clear day Ray will not be able to rejoin them at sunset. He will fall and tumble down, down, down, into the beauty of life. But he wants to watch one more sunrise with his fellow angels.

“I’ll see you soon – maybe tonight,” Ray tells the Mountie, even though there is no “soon” for an angel; there is only “always” and “forever.” The man pauses as he shines a button on his tunic. He does not smile (he never smiles, not really) but he says to the wolf, “I think it will be a very fine day, Diefenbaker.”

The sun rises at 6:42 a.m. It sweeps up over the eastern horizon and its music is beautiful. Different than what he hears in the sunset: more joyous, somehow, without the aching shadows of twilight. Cassiel stands beside him and listens to the sunrise. Ray would like to say he is sorry; he is going to fall to earth and now Cassiel will be alone for the rest of mankind’s existence. There will be no one for Cassiel to talk to, no one with whom he can debate the existence of the elusive human soul. Perhaps Cassiel will like it better this way – he has never agreed with Ray’s methods. But they were partners and now that is at an end. Nothing new will spring up in its place.

“What will you do down there?” Cassiel asks. Ray shrugs, something he has learned from his time watching the humans. He needs to practice self-expression.

“On my first day I’ll have a bath. Then I’ll get a shave, and maybe a massage. Head to toe. Then I’ll buy a newspaper and get ink all over my fingers. And I’ll eat a chili dog, and smoke a cigarette. I’ll say, ‘Hello’ to people in a thousand languages. I’ll understand every word they say. That will be my first day.”

“I’m not sure it will be that easy. Others have fallen. I’m not sure they have first days like that.”

“Well,” Ray blinks at the sun. It has cleared the lake and now rises higher in the sky. “Well, I won’t be like the others. I’ll have my Mountie. He’ll take my hand and run his thumb along the top of my knuckles as I tell him about my first day. He’ll teach me how to eat with chopsticks. I’ll be clumsy and we’ll laugh. I’ll laugh – imagine! Ten thousand sunrises and we don’t know what it’s like to laugh. My Mountie will teach me. He’ll show me everything.”

If Cassiel doubts Ray at all he does not mention it. He resolves to watch his friend carefully on this strange falling-down journey, and to help if he can. 

“You love them all so much, Ray. What if you’re wrong and life isn’t what you think?”

Ray sobers a little; he always smiled too much for an angel. “Then I’m wrong. But I’ll still know what it is to laugh. And to know...him. If I can have those things, the rest won’t matter. I’ll be content.”

“I hope so,” Cassiel says, but the words sound wrong. Angels do not hope. They know.

He goes with Ray to the top of the Sears Tower. It is a clear day and Cassiel considers the young man who threw himself off a bridge and thought of burning popcorn. 

Ray is excited. He hops on one foot along the edge of the building and yells to the west wind as it flaps at his overcoat and ruffles his wings. “I’ll send you a postcard!” he says to Cassiel. “It'll say, ‘I live, and I have my love!’”

And then Ray throws himself off the edge of the tallest building in Chicago. He falls, and never lands.

Cassiel does not go to the edge to look for him. Angels can see everything, but Ray must do this for himself. Instead he reaches into his pocket and removes his notebook. He opens it to an empty page and writes: 

_For Ray so loved the world that he gave his eternity in order to be with man._

“Good luck,” he whispers to the western wind. 

*****************


	4. Dark Before Dawn

It is dark when Ray wakes up, and he reflects that until this moment he did not understand what ‘dark’ meant. Even the darkness of the long wait for the first humans is nothing like the desolation of a city night. He is cold, and that too was only a word until he feels the way shivers course through his body. Now he understands. He sits up, head aching, and smiles broadly. He lives.

The night air is wet and a drizzling rain falls from the sky. He is as naked as Adam. His penis is a soft, flaccid weight against his thigh; goose bumps pebble his skin. He feels concrete under his back, rain on his face, and the grimy chill of water as it courses beneath his body and runs down the street and into the gutter. Marvelous.

A shining breastplate from an ancient suit of armor rests next to him. Severance pay for an eternity of service. The armor will buy clothing, food, a place to sleep. He picks it up with a prayer of thanks, tucks it under his arm, and begins his journey through the sleeping city on cold bare feet. Somewhere along the way he finds an old beach towel to wrap around his waist. Not exactly a fig leaf, but it will do.

A man passes him in the street and Ray gets his first taste of human disappointment. The man is not his Mountie; for some reason Ray expected to find him there when he woke from his fall. But this man has a closed, cruel face and wears a gray business suit instead of a red tunic. He passes Ray on the street as if he isn’t there.

Others do the same. One after another they slip by him, some of them glancing at him in curiosity, some in open resentment. He wonders why this is so. Because it is nearly winter and he wears only a towel? He cannot hear their thoughts and this disturbs him. And, when a woman stops him and offers him some money, Ray tries to thank her but he can’t form the words. She speaks to him, but he can’t understand her.

He realizes with a sinking heart that he cannot speak to the humans. He doesn’t know their languages any more. Worse, he doesn’t know Chicago. The city is suddenly strange, the towering buildings shutting him out as firmly as the faces of people on the street. Once he could drift into and out of homes and lives with only a thought; now he must walk through the echoing streets of night and hope someone will take pity on him. He must find his Mountie; he must sell his armor.

Ray wanders for hours. He walks until the first blush of dawn stains the sky, until the sun finally dawns on this strange new world. His human body has grown numb from the cold, and he bruises his feet on the pavement when he stumbles and scrapes the skin on his toes. Pain. Pain is new and fresh, and so is blood when he treads on broken glass. It is a wonderful sensation but dangerous too – he’s seen enough death to recognize what might happen to him on his first day in the world.

At noon he finally he finds an antique dealer and makes the appropriate gestures to the man behind the counter to sell the breastplate. The man hands him a fistful of paper bills in return. Ray is relieved to find it isn’t a handful of silver.

“You think it’s funny, don’t you?” he mutters to the room. The antique dealer looks at him strangely until Ray leaves.

He finds a thrift store and selects a pair of sweatpants, boots, a t-shirt and a wool cap to pull down over his ears. Clothing is strangely restrictive and the shoes especially are cumbersome. He forgets to buy socks. He dresses and then returns to the streets, still shivering.

Ray's first day passes into night, and then day again. Ray needs to find his Mountie. But he can’t read street signs and he can’t ask anyone where the detective’s station is; he can only wander in the drizzling rain and listen to his stomach growl. Food. He wanted a chili dog, but where does one get such a thing?

Bearded men dressed like himself line up in front of an empty building. He sniffs at the air and it smells wonderful, something fragrant that makes his empty stomach burble louder. Ray joins the line and is surprised when someone thrusts a plate into his hand.

His first meal is cold meatloaf and stringy green beans, but he bears the disappointment well. Food is wonderful – the Lieutenant had said sex was better, but Ray doesn’t believe such a thing is possible. He eats his meal and takes a second helping when it’s offered. He finishes off with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and closes his eyes. Heaven.

After the meal his strength seems restored. His new limbs no longer feel rubbery and he walks until they begin to flag once more. Then he curls up on some old cardboard boxes and falls asleep. Sleep is good.

And so the days pass. Ray’s human existence is not unlike his angelic one: he is confined to watching people and imagining what their lives must be like. But he can no longer understand their thoughts or listen to their private conversations: this is Babel after the collapse of the Tower. The human languages – Greek, Polish, Spanish, German, Farsi – break over him like waves against a beachhead, leaving him feeling drowned and disoriented. Forsaking other humans, Ray makes friends with a scrawny, half-starved cat whose matted fur covers sharp bones and threatens to overwhelm watery green eyes. The cat is the only thing that touches him, or allows Ray to touch, and so Ray buries his fingers in its filthy fur and delights in the feline’s low, rumbling purrs. He names the beast Gabriel.

Children smile at him on the street. They can guess his secret, for they are also new to the world and are only beginning to unravel its secrets. Their furtive grins make him think of shared laughter and, in the lingering seconds before their mothers or fathers pull them away, he glimpses a part of human existence that he never noticed as an angel. These children are beautiful, and he wonders what happens to make them into the hard-faced adults who pass him on the street.

Every day Ray searches for his Mountie, but he never finds him.

Winter comes to the city, and Ray and Gabriel seek shelter in the cardboard cities that materialize under the El tracks. Pain and cold and hunger weaken his human body and Ray begins to long for the numbness of heaven. He huddles around an oil drum filled with burning garbage, clutching Gabriel tightly to his chest. He feels the cat shiver and bits of his old life slip away. He can no longer hear the sunrise; instead each day dawns cold and lonely. He misses Cassiel and wonders if he is being punished for coveting this life, for wanting this searing, aching alone-ness of human existence.

In these dark moments, however, the Lieutenant’s words guide him. He finally tries a chili dog (excellent) and a cigarette (good, although it makes him cough and it’s not quite as good as coffee). Sex is something he experiences only tangentially: he hears the noises of men in alleyways when the nights are long and lonely. Their grunts and murmurs flush his skin and make him feel warm. He learns how to touch himself, to seek relief for his hot, swollen body. The pleasure is extraordinary and never lasts long enough; he thinks of his Mountie and cries, afterwards. This longing is too much to bear.

And then one day he sees a flash of red at the mouth of an alleyway. Ray charges after it, ignoring Gabriel’s yowls about being left behind, and runs until his breath comes in harsh, gasping sobs and his heart threatens to explode. He is weak but forces himself forward, stumbling against garbage cans and crashing into brick walls. Pain in his elbow makes him spasm when he smashes into the corner of a dumpster and pinwheels away. He slumps against the side of a building, holding his throbbing elbow (broken, he’s broken himself) and praying silently for the strength to stand, to keep going. To find his Mountie.

The sound of pounding feet and the promise of that beautiful red--red like blood, red like passion, red like life--draws him forward. But he can’t keep up, and the noise of the pursuit fades. 

He slows and rounds a corner, and then time comes to a stop. His Mountie. Here, in a trash-lined alleyway, his hands held outward in supplication. His voice is low and soothing as he speaks to the man who stands before him, brandishing a gun. 

Ray has watched this scene play out a thousand times before in his angel-life. He has seen people die in alleyways just like this one, a bullet to the chest or the stomach making their thoughts turn gray and cloudy. And pain. He knows pain and fear and uncertainty now, first-hand. Before they died those lost souls always asked him, “What comes next?” and Ray could never answer. 

His Mountie is still speaking slowly, carefully, inching closer to the man. Ray wonders what he’s saying, what words he could possibly use that might make this hard-faced man with the gun reconsider snuffing out a life. But the words aren’t working; his Mountie is failing. Ray can see it in the way the man’s finger tightens on the trigger, the way his face reflects only calm certainty. The gunman almost seems bored. 

Ray cannot let this happen. He cannot – he can’t have given up everything for this. Not to watch his Mountie die in an alley, the light fading from those blue, blue eyes. He cannot listen to his Mountie ask, “What now?” and have no answer for him. 

And so, in the end, it isn’t even a choice. He steps away from the wall; the gunman sees the movement, swivels and fires without a second thought. And Ray is falling, falling and it's like the first fall, like the last. 

He hits the concrete, and then hits his head. His chest aches.

Everything is quiet and still. He isn’t sure where the gunman is, or what happened to his Mountie. Gabriel finds him. The cat rubs against his leg. Apparently Ray has been forgiven for his abandonment. He scratches Gabriel's ears and tries to breathe, but something is wrong. Tears streak the dirt on his face.

He finds his feet. He doesn’t want to die like this; he’d like to be somewhere warm and safe, somewhere that reminds him of all that he has lost. The church on the corner beckons and Ray stumbles inside, his arm pressing tightly against his side. Even so he feels blood dripping down his pant leg. It stains the doorway as he passes through.

He sits in a comfortable pew that smells of oil and wood soap and tries to warm himself. Death hovers outside and Ray wouldn’t mind, only...he wanted more from this life than pain. He wanted laughter, and desire, and to feel the beat of his Mountie’s heart. 

Saint Sebastian smiles down from his stained-glass portrait in the window. The saint looks like Cassiel.

“You there, Cassiel?” Ray says to the empty church. “Sure you are. You can't resist a good death.” A hacking cough interrupts him but Ray forces the words out. “Will you be with me when it ends? Humans always think of wonderful things when they die. I want to think of something beautiful, too. Help me to see it? I can’t... I can’t think of anything right now.”

Ray’s eyes blur and try to focus again. He thinks he sees the dim outline of a man. A man in a red tunic. His Mountie moves closer and Ray can see him a little. His face is as kind and gentle as any stained-glass saint's, as compassionate as the face of the crucified one who watches from above the alter.

“I knew you would find me,” he whispers. “I knew.” 

Ray closes his eyes.

He does not dream any longer.

**********


	5. The Skies Over Chicago

Heaven has changed. It’s not at all as he remembers it, from the time before the humans, before the Earth was formed. It’s--brighter. Noisier. It echoes with the sound of shoes on polished linoleum. The beep of machines. And a man’s voice. He is speaking slowly, steadily, reciting familiar words. Words Ray can finally understand.

_"If thou beest he--but O how fallen! how changed_  
From him who, in the happy realms of light  
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine  
Myriads, though bright!” 

Ray blinks and licks his lips. His mouth is dry. He is still alive—this must be a hospital. And the man is...

The man in the red tunic. His Mountie. Right here in the room.

“Hi,” he croaks, and wonders where his voice has gone, why the human words have suddenly returned to him. Cassiel’s doing, perhaps. His accent is strange.

The man stops his recitation. He peers over at Ray. His face is open and gentle and kind and only slightly nervous-looking. “You’re awake.” And the way he pronounces this fact makes Ray feel as though he has accomplished something marvelous. “Would you like some water?”

“Yeah,” Ray replies, and takes the plastic cup the man hands him. His elbow still won’t bend properly, but he works his lips around the straw. Water is good. Water is greatness. His chest hurts.

The man is staring at him, his expression still friendly and curious. But he is thinking about something very carefully. A man who can recite Milton from memory is predisposed to deliberate pauses.

“Have we met?”

Ray closes his eyes and sips from the cup. The water at the bottom of the straw makes a little sucking noise. This next part is so very important. “Do you think we have?”

“Yes.” This answer is quickly delivered. “Yes, I think so. I dreamed about you.”

And this makes Ray smile. He slumps down a little in the bed, wiggling so his hips fit more comfortably against the mattress. Safe and warm and his Mountie is here. Human life is suddenly everything he wished it could be. “What’s your name?”

The Mountie blushes. “Fraser. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP.”

Ah. Benton. Ray rolls the name around in his mouth. It feels good there, almost holy. He’ll shorten it to ‘Ben,’ or say ‘Fraser!’ when he’s mad. 

“Benton, I’m Ray. What’d we do in your dream?”

If possible, the blush on Benton’s cheeks deepens. Ray feels his own skin grow warm. The air between them seems charged. Ray thinks of the sky over the lake during a thunderstorm. Benton’s eyes are very blue.

“We held each other,” Benton says simply. “We held each other and watched the sun rise.”

“Sounds like a nice dream.”

“It was.”

Ray frees his hand from the tangle of hospital blankets and finds Ben’s hand. His hand is warm and strong, the fingers themselves callused from hard work. Ray doesn’t have any calluses – he’s too new. But someday he’ll be marked by this life. He squeezes Ben’s hand. 

“I—” Ben tries to speak, stops himself. He reminds Ray very strongly of the children who had laughed at him on the street, their faces open and honest before the world closes over them like scar tissue. “I do know you, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Ray agrees. “We know each other. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Across a thousand lifetimes.” For an instant Ray catches a glimpse of the man Ben is when he prays – vulnerable, exhausted, tremulous, hopeful. A man who always and only prays for others. And then his face is an adult’s again: impassive, with the bright beauty of his soul locked tightly away. He tugs his hand out from under Ray’s. 

“You...you saved my life.”

Right. The man with the gun. The man who-- “I got shot.”

“Yes,” Ben agrees. He thumbs his eyebrow, stares at the thin grey hospital blanket, and says, “Why?”

“Why’d I save you?”

Ben nods. Or Fraser nods. A moment ago he was one man, and now he is someone else. Someone who stands rigidly at attention and watches the world pass by. 

“It was the right thing to do, I guess. The only thing. And maybe you needed saving.”

Fraser glances at him sharply. Ray wishes Ben would come back. “I wish you hadn’t.”

The admission shocks them both. Fraser recovers first, covering the awkward silence with a cough. “What I mean to say is, I’m not worth-”

Ray reaches for his hand again, tugging at it insistently until Fraser’s hand lies in his once more, their palms fitting neatly together. Ray keeps his eyes on Fraser’s—Ben’s—face. He tries to see himself from Ben’s perspective. Ray knows he is red-eyed and too thin from all that time on the streets. His dirty-blond beard is scraggly and unkempt, and he’s swaddled in layers of bandages where the bullet entered his body just below his ribcage. But he puts everything he feels into his eyes: the fall, and the long waiting-time to be found, and that he needs Ben to be brave and to listen to him. He hopes that some spark of the divine remains in his eyes, showing through this scrawny, dirty human shell. 

“You’re worth it,” he says to Ben. “You’re worth everything. Don’t you see?”

And Ben wants to believe him – Ray can see that in his eyes. He looks very much like a child who wants to trust in Santa Claus or the tooth fairy or happily-ever-after. But the man Ben has become – the man who has suffered and bled and cried alone in this city – won’t quite believe what Ray is telling him. And so Ray must find another way.

But a wave of pain from his chest makes him cough, and Ben frowns and murmurs, “I’m terribly sorry. You’re exhausted and most likely in a great deal of pain. I’ll go.”

And he stands and disappears before Ray can even begin to say, “I love you.”

This is going to be much harder than he thought.

*********

Ben comes back to visit, only he’s Fraser most of the time and he usually comes by when Ray is asleep, or floating on the hazy cloud of pain medication that the doctors prescribe. Ben hovers at the edge of Ray’s vision when the drugs are very strong, flickering in and out like a negative version of the man Ray glimpsed from heaven. 

Ray would like to reach out and touch him but Ben stands out of reach, watching him carefully and with a sad look of wrinkle-browed confusion. That unspoken “Why?” hangs between them as Ray drifts in and out of consciousness, and the question itself makes him feel so alone. At his worst moments Ray suspects Fraser thinks of him as a debt he cannot repay. Perhaps all they’ll ever share is a friendship like those in the fables, where one man saves the other’s life and the act condemns him to an unhappy sense of obligation.

Ray has no other visitors and, indeed, expects none. If Cassiel drops in and observes he never says anything about it to Ray, and if Ray sometimes catches a glimpse of a long black overcoat, or a pen held poised over a notepad, he assumes it’s the medication and not just wishful thinking.

When the mandatory week of recovery is almost at an end, Ray wakes from an indistinct and drugged sleep to find a familiar face hovering there. Not his Mountie, of course – Fraser knows Ray’s sleep patterns better than Ray himself and only comes when he is between worlds to recite Milton or read from the daily paper. No, this heavyset man with the bulldog face and the twinkling blue eyes can only be one man. The Lieutenant.

“Hi,” he says to Ray, settling into the bedside chair with a soft sigh. “Sorry I didn’t come see you sooner. We’ve got a real mess going on down at the station. None of my detectives have slept in a week. Your Mountie friend’s the only one who doesn’t look like he crawled out of a gutter.” He pauses awkwardly, taking in Ray’s bearded face and thin body. “No offense.”

Ray can only nod. He still feels muzzy from the pain medication. And how does the Lieutenant know-

“Takes one to know one,” he says, answering Ray’s unasked question. “I made the jump back in ’63. You’re new to this whole thing and you haven’t done so bad for yourself. Okay, getting shot wasn’t a real smart move, but you’re alive and you got what you wanted. Right?”

“Not exactly.” Ray pushes himself up into a sitting position. The movement pulls at his stitches and his still-healing insides and makes him wince. “It’s not what I expected.”

“That’s life. Unfortunately. I’m Welsh, by the way,” he says, offering a big meaty hand to Ray. “Try chili dogs yet?”

“Yeah. Good, aren’t they?”

“The best. And there’s stuff that’s even better.” Welsh pats his stomach and then winks broadly, sharing the joke. “When are you getting out?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Have anywhere to go?”

Ray shakes his head. He’d assumed he could go back to the streets, but one of the doctors explained that he needs to keep the dressings clean and, because that’s tough to do living in a cardboard box, Ray has to find somewhere to live. He’s not quite sure how to go about this: the money from the breastplate disappeared months ago, spent on chili dogs and canned cat food for Gabriel, given away to other men and women who needed it more. 

“Fraser?”

The prick of tears makes his eyes burn. The medication makes him cry sometimes. Or maybe it’s the wound.

“He...it’s complicated. He doesn’t understand why—” and Ray can’t finish, he can only wave down at his bandaged torso, at the tubes running in and out of his belly. He knows their names, now: IV, catheter, drainage shunt. Good solid medical words that hadn’t meant anything to him as an angel. 

“Fraser’s a funny case.” If Ray had ever had a father, he might have thought Welsh was being paternal. "He's one of those old-fashioned types. Self-sufficient, hates to be in anyone's debt...and since he probably thinks there's no way to repay what you did, he's not sure how to act around you. Imagine if you told him the truth – not only did you take a bullet for him, you gave up everything else, too.”

“It wasn’t that much, really.” There’s an absent note in his voice that he hadn’t expected. “It’d almost be worth it if he would just talk to me, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Welsh puts a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I know.”

**********

On the day of his release Ray is up and moving around his small hospital room, packing his few belongings into a plastic bag one of the nurses found for him. The sweatpants, t-shirt and underwear he bought that first day at the Salvation Army were cut off his body when he was brought in; the clothes he folds into the bag are donations from the hospital, old hand-me-downs that look a lot like the ones he lost. Many parts of human life seem interchangeable: clothing, bits of food and information, even people. It’s disorienting, because during his time as an angel everything seemed so precious. This thought, and the rain drizzling down outside his hospital room, make him feel very sad.

“You’re leaving.”

Ray jerks his head towards the door. Ben – or Fraser, he has to get a little closer before Ray can decide—hovers in the doorway. “Yeah. Got my walking papers.” He pokes the plastic bag, making it crinkle. “Packing’s almost done.”

“Where will you go?”

Ray shrugs. “Shelter, I guess. Hospital’s going to pay for a cab.”

Fraser doesn’t say anything, and the silence drags out too long. There’s an awkwardness between them that Ray never anticipated. He’d thought things would be easy, like slipping into a warm bath. But he’s starting to realize that Fraser isn’t an easy sort of person. Or perhaps Ray is doing something wrong. 

Fraser shifts uneasily and comes to stand by the window. The narrow length of the hospital bed divides them and Ray wants to reach out and touch him as he did that first day, when shock and pain and relief at finally finding his Mountie made him bold, fearless. Rejection has made him cautious now. He cannot bring himself to hobble around the bed. 

“Things at the station okay now?”

Fraser looks surprised by the question and nods. “Yes.” The words sound weary until he brightens and says too quickly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to visit more often, but-”

Ray cuts him off. He can’t bear any more disappointment. “It’s okay. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

“It’s not that,” Fraser says quietly, his expression suddenly more intense. There’s emotion in his voice now, instead of that flat delivery that makes Ray think of mannequins and tin soldiers. “I just don’t understand why you’re here.”

“I got shot.”

“Not that.” Fraser – Ben now, this is Ben – is gently exasperated. “I meant, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

Understanding dawns, and it’s nothing like the sunrise. “Welsh say something?”

Ben blinks. “Lieutenant Welsh? No, why would he...oh. No. I simply guessed.”

“Guessed?”

“That you are a—” and here Ben seems to lose his nerve. He can’t quite say the word. Instead he turns back to the window.

This isn’t quite the declaration Ray had been expecting. Ray sinks down into the familiar softness of the bed. His chest and belly ache from the strain of standing and waiting for Fraser to come to his own conclusions. 

“I didn’t think people could tell.”

“They can’t. Normally. But I seem to be...well, perhaps it’s best to say I’m abnormal and leave it at that.”

It takes Ray a few moments to process what Fraser is saying, and still he finds he cannot understand. Fraser has known? This whole miserable week? And he never said anything at all? Anger flushes his face, makes him jerk to his feet, round the bed, and twist Fraser to face him. His hand on Fraser’s shoulder only makes him aware of his own weakness; there is strength and warmth in the shoulder, the muscles hard and firm. Ray’s hand shakes a little. 

Fraser looks calm. His face is a smooth, placid surface which no emotion can possibly disturb, and even his eyes maintain the lie of internal composure. But Ray suspects there’s more hiding beneath all that restraint. He knows Ray for what he is; he knows things no human should.

“I don’t believe in God,” Fraser says. The words are loud in the smallness of the hospital room. He stiffens even more beneath Ray’s hand, as if he is preparing to be struck by a blow of some kind. Or a thunderbolt. But Fraser is a man of conviction, and so he stands at the ready and prepares for damnation.

Instead Ray laughs. “That’s all this was about? You never came to see me when I was awake because you don’t believe?”

“I-” Shock seems to be his first response, and then that gives way to ruffled indignation. “I don’t see how my lack of faith is in any way amusing.”

Ray is doubled over, howling. He tries to control himself but the attempt only sets off another gale of laughter. The delicate skin around the stitches pulls and he knows in a few minutes the pain will be so sharp he won’t be able to breathe. But this first bit of laughter in his human existence is worth it. “S’not funny, just...oh god,” he moans, wiping ineffectually at the tears that have gathered in the corners of his eyes. “You thought...what? I’m here to test you, or something?”

That blush again, Ben’s blush, the delicate pinking of cheeks and the bright, gentle embarrassment he glimpsed so briefly before it was covered up, paved over, locked away. 

“It didn’t seem to be out of the realm of possibility. I’ve often wondered if my father wasn’t here to...Well,” he finished awkwardly. “I suppose you would know better than I.”

This odd statement makes no sense to Ray, but he’s still so heady with relief at the knowledge that Ben wasn’t shunning him out of a sense of obligation that he sets aside any further questions and sits back on the bed. “Look, let’s start again. If you don’t believe in God, what do you believe in?”

Ben widens his stance and takes a breath. Of course he’s got a response prepared. Ray falls in love with him just a little bit more. 

“I believe in human decency. Dignity. Respect for one’s fellows, and that if one can protect others or help others, one must do everything one must to give succor. And to that end, I would like very much for you to come home with me.”

It comes out in a rush, and Ben looks a little worried about that last part. Like he’s concerned that Ray will turn him down, even though it’s the best offer Ray has ever heard in this or any other life.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Just, okay.”

And Ben smiles, and it’s a wide, easy, happy smile. The first he’s ever seen from his Mountie.

Perhaps today was a clear day after all.

*************

They take a cab back to Fraser’s apartment and Ray unpacks his little plastic bag. His few possessions seem at home among Fraser’s, perhaps because Fraser doesn’t have very much either. Everything fits neatly into the footlocker, the wardrobe, and the little kitchen with its bare cabinets and table settings for one. 

Fraser insists that Ray take a nap: the laughter and the excitement of leaving the hospital and finally, finally coming back to the little apartment on Racine has made him sleepy and Ray complies without putting up a fuss. When he wakes up the window is open: it is raining and Gabriel is there. The cat is a warm, sleepy weight on his chest.

“Found me, huh?” Ray says to the cat. Gabriel pushes his head into Ray’s hand as if to say, “Of course.” Ray scratches behind his ears and soon Gabriel is purring deeply in his rumbly-soft way. Ray feels the vibrations deep in his chest and closes his eyes, listening to the rain and the cat and the sound of Fraser making tea in the kitchen. Happiness constricts his chest; he wants this moment to last forever.

“Your cat has been sitting underneath my window every night since you’ve been in hospital,” Fraser explains, settling onto the bed beside Ray. He hands Ray a warm mug of tea and Ray tries not to make a face. “Diefenbaker finally took pity on him and suggested that we take him in. I suppose they both thought it was inevitable you would end up here.”

“Smart wolf. Smart cat.”

“Yes. Does he have a name?”

“Gabriel.”

Fraser considers this for a moment, listening to Gabriel’s disproportionately loud purrs. “Well chosen. I had a cat named Pity Sing when I was a child. I think my mother picked the name; I was too young for the Southern Gothics and my father would have selected something far more practical and dull.”

Ray watches Fraser’s face carefully as he tells this story, aware of the warmth of Fraser’s arm pressed against his, how they keep shifting closer together. Perhaps these things are difficult only when they are spoken aloud.

“Do you like your tea?”

“It’s not really my style,” Ray says, holding the cup so Gabriel can lap at the hot, bitter fluid. “I’m more of a coffee guy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They sit in silence and listen to the rain for a while. When Fraser shifts to move Ray circles his fingers around his wrist and finally, after everything that has happened, Ray discovers that it is simply a matter of turning his head a few inches to meet Fraser’s kiss. 

Fraser’s mouth is warm, his kiss uncertain and a little shy. Ray smiles against his lips. 

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Okay,” Ben whispers back. With a mutual sigh they relax into one another. All the ease that was missing from their conversations is here, in this soft touch of mouths, in the way Ben’s thumb strokes over Ray’s knuckles. Their bodies seem to recognize one another, and Ray considers the wisdom of flesh as Ben’s tongue tentatively explores his lower lip, sucking gently as Ray tips his head back and moans. 

God, this feeling. He hadn’t known...

“Ray, Ray, Ray,” Ben is chanting between kisses. His movements are more certain and there is an intense cast to his face that Ray recognizes from his declaration in the hospital room earlier. _I don’t believe,_ he’d said. Ray wants to tell him that belief in the power of this moment is enough. Instead he leans over to set his mug of tea on the floor and shifts gently, mindful of his stitches, until they are lying facing one another. He threads his hands through Ben’s soft hair. It slides between his fingers like silk. 

The belly wound twinges a bit but Ben is gentle when he slides big broad hands beneath the hem of Ray’s thin t-shirt. His fingers skate over the bandages and then stroke against bare skin; Ray shows Ben his throat and gasps when Ben’s tongue traces his pulse. Life can be a religion, can’t it? Bodies can be prayerful in their movements, belief cemented in the ecstasy of climax. Ray moves to show Ben what faith can be.

The rain muffles the sound of a zipper. Lightening flashes outside just as Ben eases Ray’s jeans from his hips and then removes his own. His first glimpse of Ben’s cock, large and beautiful and red-looking in the soft afternoon light, is succeeded by the crack of thunder.

Ben looks at him and strokes his cheek. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Ray tells him. “If I do something wrong, or...”

“How could you?” Ben asks softly, and Ray knows he means it. His heart swells with love and desire for Ben, for his body and for his soul. And so he bends and takes Ben into his mouth. He tastes of salt and sweetness. Ben’s eyes fall shut and his body arches up to meet his touch. 

“Oh God,” Ben sobs, and Ray tightens his hold on Ben’s hand. “Oh God!”

He thrusts in Ray’s mouth and Ray closes his eyes, narrowing everything to the slick slide of flesh and the not-quite-ache that settles deep in his jaw. With a cry Ben jerks his hips forward once more and spills himself into Ray, hot spurts of bitter warmth flooding his mouth. Life again, belief embodied, in-bodied. That thought sets Ray off and the strength of his own orgasm makes him fade out a little, the world fuzzy and dream-like for long moments until he realizes he’s squeezing Ben’s hand too hard. Nothing in heaven can compare, and they’ve only just begun.

Ray holds Ben in his mouth until he softens and falls away, and then Ray settles his head on Ben’s flat, warm belly. 

“Was that--?”

“Yes,” Ray smiles into Ben’s skin. “That was...that was everything. Thanks.”

Ben chuckles: it is a wonderful sound. His fingers stroke against Ray’s hair, pushing into his scalp with a gentle rhythm synchronized to the rain falling outside. “I think I should be thanking you. Shall I reciprocate?”

Ray shakes his head. “Too late,” he laughs, easing himself over and onto his back, rubbing curiously at the stickiness that coats his penis. Ben’s belly makes a soft cushion. “It always like that?”

“I wouldn’t know.” There’s something in Ben’s voice Ray hasn’t heard since he first caught sight of Ben all those months ago and listened to him pray in an empty apartment. “I had hoped it would be. For so long I’ve hoped—”

“Hey,” Ray catches Ben’s big, broad, calloused hand, bringing it to rest on the bare skin over his heart. “You and me, okay? I’m yours, for as long as you want me.”

“Won’t you go?”

Ray looks at Ben in amazement. He’d thought everything was understood, settled. 

“No. This is permanent.”

The rainfall outside seems louder, and Ray counts off the seconds by feeling the pulse in Ben’s wrist. 

“You can never—” Ben swallows past the catch in his voice. “You can never go home?”

Ray shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno. There’s not exactly a rulebook for this kind of thing. I just leapt, that’s all. Took a chance, fell to earth. Found you. That’s all I know.”

He can feel the question brewing inside Ben. It forces itself up through that careful sea of calm Ben has spent a lifetime cultivating. Ray thinks for a wild instant that Ben would have been a perfect angel, better even than Cassiel. Much better than himself. And when the “Why?” finally comes Ray can only bring Ben’s hand to his mouth and place a gentle kiss in the center of his palm. 

“Because I love you. Because nothing else made sense. And because it was the only thing I could do.”

Ben’s hand trembles against his lips and strokes the line of Ray’s jaw. He sits up to brush soft kisses over Ray’s forehead and cheeks, the movements very small and tender.

“No one has ever--” But Ben can’t quite finish; the words fade out in hot breath against Ray’s forehead. Ray sees the way Ben’s throat works to push out these new, hard words. “No one has ever given up so much for me, Ray.” 

“Wasn’t so very much. Just the memory of something else.”

And nestled beside Ben, safe and warm, Ray believes it. Outside the storm has passed, and now there is only the sound of rain and the feeling that this moment will last as long as time.

They fall asleep, and hold each other. The world is like a dream.

_.fin._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wings of Desire [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462748) by [zabira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zabira/pseuds/zabira)




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